Month: December 2010

Doors were created to be held by me, for all the ladies, all the time.

Doors were created to be held by me, for all the ladies, all the time.

No, brown. A brown… something. Hard and cold. Face pressed against it. Can’t lift face. Lift something? Ah, hand moves. Eye lids move.

Eye lids scratch eyes, don’t move!

Feel brown floor. Cold surface, like glass but sticky. Cool to the touch. Cold and warm. Stay still, face. Stay still, hand. Eyes closed, breathe in dust, breathe out bile breath.

Cool and still. Sleep.

Crawl forward, feel carpet. Shove up. Feel carpet and shove up harder, force the body up. Cool brown and then carpet? Bathroom. My bathroom, I hope.

Scrape eye open. Yes.

Roll over. Sore hip, sore ribs, sore arm and head. Light seeps in through the cracks. Slits part, it all pours in. High, white ceiling. Bare walls. Hum of central heating. Thoughtful housemates. Reach for bathroom door handle and pull up.

Stumble into the desk. Mind the monitor. Mind the keyboard. Mind the dreams typed before passing out. Stars and legs and other things. Some in memory, some in writing. Some lost. Stumble away, stumble away.

Horrid taste. Painful taste. Hold onto sink and look in the mirror. Horrid old man. Horrid things said. Wash mouth out, wash it all away.

Bruise on the lower-left corner of the palm, between two glowing blue veins. Water and toothpaste drip from drooping lips and ragged whiskers. Look out the window. Still in a dream.

No, brown. A brown… something. Hard and cold. Face pressed against it. Can’t lift face. Lift something? Ah, hand moves. Eye lids move.

Eye lids scratch eyes, don’t move!

Feel brown floor. Cold surface, like glass but sticky. Cool to the touch. Cold and warm. Stay still, face. Stay still, hand. Eyes closed, breathe in dust, breathe out bile breath.

Cool and still. Sleep.

Crawl forward, feel carpet. Shove up. Feel carpet and shove up harder, force the body up. Cool brown and then carpet? Bathroom. My bathroom, I hope.

Scrape eye open. Yes.

Roll over. Sore hip, sore ribs, sore arm and head. Light seeps in through the cracks. Slits part, it all pours in. High, white ceiling. Bare walls. Hum of central heating. Thoughtful housemates. Reach for bathroom door handle and pull up.

Stumble into the desk. Mind the monitor. Mind the keyboard. Mind the dreams typed before passing out. Stars and legs and other things. Some in memory, some in writing. Some lost. Stumble away, stumble away.

Horrid taste. Painful taste. Hold onto sink and look in the mirror. Horrid old man. Horrid things said. Wash mouth out, wash it all away.

Bruise on the lower-left corner of the palm, between two glowing blue veins. Water and toothpaste drip from drooping lips and ragged whiskers. Look out the window. Still in a dream.

“Say bitch. Just call me a bitch, it’s fine.”

“Nah, I can’t. I can’t say a thing without sounding like I mean it.”

“Whatever. Just do it.”

“Fine. Bitch.”

“Wow, you’re right. It sounded like you really think I’m a bitch.”

“See?”

“Yea. I kind of want to cry now.”

“Say bitch. Just call me a bitch, it’s fine.”

“Nah, I can’t. I can’t say a thing without sounding like I mean it.”

“Whatever. Just do it.”

“Fine. Bitch.”

“Wow, you’re right. It sounded like you really think I’m a bitch.”

“See?”

“Yea. I kind of want to cry now.”

The houses are on the right side of the highway every Thursday. They expand and contract with the rolling hills, coated in shrubbery and the stucco-like texture of a sea of trees. The fog rolls in when it pleases and provides a pleasant place for kids and naughty people to play. In the evenings it is quiet and dark with nary a lightpost to light the way. Walkers and bicyclers roll through proudly adorned in little lights and their canines wag happily along beside them. The cars are silent roamers, up and down the hills, looking for a place to rest for the night. The lights of the city in the distance are the beacon and the reminder that they are not alone.

One evening, there are flames are on the right side of the highway. They roar and call to passersby.

“Come and see, come and see! Pull over, come and see!”

The flames rise high into the air, sending wave after wave of chemical fury smashing against the side of the houses, crippling the tops of their heads and the leaves on the trees. The rumble rises above the peace of the houses and consumes them, threatening to take all who get near. The passersby watch in anticipation. A new sight to behold.

The flames burn on into the evening and the houses are gone.

The houses are on the right side of the highway every Thursday. They expand and contract with the rolling hills, coated in shrubbery and the stucco-like texture of a sea of trees. The fog rolls in when it pleases and provides a pleasant place for kids and naughty people to play. In the evenings it is quiet and dark with nary a lightpost to light the way. Walkers and bicyclers roll through proudly adorned in little lights and their canines wag happily along beside them. The cars are silent roamers, up and down the hills, looking for a place to rest for the night. The lights of the city in the distance are the beacon and the reminder that they are not alone.

One evening, there are flames are on the right side of the highway. They roar and call to passersby.

“Come and see, come and see! Pull over, come and see!”

The flames rise high into the air, sending wave after wave of chemical fury smashing against the side of the houses, crippling the tops of their heads and the leaves on the trees. The rumble rises above the peace of the houses and consumes them, threatening to take all who get near. The passersby watch in anticipation. A new sight to behold.

The flames burn on into the evening and the houses are gone.